t\\V^S, U)\'il>cu^ y)a^i^^juc 
u 

A Little Book: 



TO OBTAIN MEANS FOR 



PLACING A MEMOKIAL STONE UPON THE GKAVE 
OF THE POET 



HENRY TIM ROD. 



FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION. 



PUBLISHED FOR THE COMMITTEE, BY 

WALKER, EVANS & COGSWELL, PRINTERS, 
Charle.ston, S. C. 



?5 3^75 



^£r^^L 



or 



COMMITTEE. 



As soon as sufficient means are obtained, the Stone, with 
an appropriate inscription, will be placed upon the grave, 
under the direction of the following gentlemen : 

HOK. HUGH S. THOMPSON, 
State Superintendent of Education. {Columbia, S. C.) 

Hon. GEORGE S. BRYAN, 
Judge of the Federal Court. {Charleston, 8. C.) 

Prof. F. A. PORCHER, 

Prest. So. Ca. Historical Society. {Charleston, S. C.) 

Prof. JAMES H. CARLISLE, 

Prest. of Wofford College. {Spartanburg, S. C.) 

Rev. ELLISON CAPERS. 

{Greenville, S. C.) 



Believing that you share with us in a iiigh appreciation of the 
poetic genius of Henry Timrod, we take pleasure in presenting 
this " Little Book " which has been published for private circu- 
lation. 

The undersigned have in contemplation the erection of a 
Memorial Stone on Timrod's Grave, which has remained un- 
m arked since his burial in 1867, as a simple honor to the memory 
of one whose merits as a Poet are everywhere acknowledged. 

The contribution from each friend who receives this " Little 
Book " of from $2 to $5, will ensure the means of paying this 
ti'ibute. 

The author of the pieces which make up this little volume — 
Prof. Wm J. Rivers, desires us to add for him, that the writing 
of verses has been with him, as with many of us, an occasional 
pastime; and that he hopes the lack of merit in those here given 
will be no bar to your generous consideration of the good object 
which their publication is designed to accomplish. 
Very respectfully, 

HUGH S. THOMPSON. 
GEORGE S. BRYAN. 
F. A. PORCHER. 
JAMES H. CARLISLE. 
ELLISON CAPERS. 

Maj. H. S. Thompson, Columbia, S. C, has kindly consented to 
act as Treasurer, and receive such amounts as you may feel able to 
contribute. 

Tl>t ^ScrjUu - ^^^^-^:.1'.:" Y^^^^y^i ^va.h'<e t^w rjv«,vt w'Jl o- 



The Characteristics of Henry Timrod's Poetry, 
And His Rank as a Poet. 



A Lecture to the Students of the University of 

South Carolina, delivered shortly after 

Mr. Timrod's Death. 



Young Gentlemen : It is not often that an opportunity 
occurs to impress upon you the instructions which you 
here receive by pointing to examples within the range of 
your personal knowledge. Such an opportunity occurs this 
evening. You have read or are reading the poems of an- 
cient and modern nations ; and you have no doubt thought 
that it would be a source of gratification to you, had you 
known, as you know one another, the writers whose beauti- 
ful productions have filled you with rapture and admiration. 
Such a gratification your memory will now aflford you in 
the instance of one, who though not among the highest 
poets of the world, is, perhaps, the best of the departed 
poets our State has given birth to. To you, when you shall 
have completed your education here, it will belong, as an 



8 



especial duty, to recognize literary merit and be its promo- 
ters and guardians in the communities in which you may 
live ; and such an exercise of recognition and kindly re- 
gard, though, alas ! to the dead and not to the living ! you 
are invited to participate in on this occasion. To some of 
you may be allotted the pen of the poet, and it may be 
hereafter your solace and chief delight to receive the praise 
which you now would bestow upon the poor and unobtru- 
sive bard who came here to spend the last days of his brief 
existence ; and who was accustomed to come frequently to 
these peaceful halls of learning, through sympathy with 
our studies, or charmed by the seclusion of the spot ; un- 
known perhaps to some who saw him, unappreciated per- 
haps by many who knew him, till the grave had closed 
over him, and from every direction throughout the country, 
memorials in his praise began to reach our ears. 

More than twenty years ago, among the pupils of a 
school in which I taught, was Henry Timrod. As he 
was then, diffident, modest, with a nervous utterance, yet 
with melody ever in his thoughts and on his lips — so, with 
no change through all these years, he appeared to me when 
I visited him a few days before he died ; still almost a 
child in simplicity of demeanor and purity of sentiment, as 
if his quiet heart knew not the work it had done in giving 
forth from its depths of feeling, melodious songs ; as a flower 
gives forth, at the bidding of nature, its fragrance when a 



bud, its fragrance when its full blown petals are unfolded 
to the sun, its fragrance when the death dews bend its 
yielding beauty to the dust. Happily, he had heard the 
verdict of his generation, placing him among the poets of 
his country— a just verdict, which, we doubt not, posterity 
will sanction forever. 

There is little of what is called achievement to record of 
one who avoided the busy world from an inaptitude for its 
conflicts, and, it may be, from a disdain of its pursuits. 
The life history of such a one, is but a story of the afl^ections 
or a delineation tf intellectual development. Still such a 
life has its lesson for us, as all lives have. The qualities 
of manhood may oftener be displayed in enduring ills, 
struggling against temptations, and triumphing in self- 
sacrificing duties, than in leading armies or dying amidst 
the plaudits of the multitude. In this view there is much 
to admire in Mr. Timrod's endurance and perseverance, 
under circumstances calculated to oppress and dishearten. 
From his youth he often suffered from spells of ill health, 
premonitions of the fatal disease which brought him to the 
tomb. For some years his strength had been failing, and 
since the close of the war it had been his lot to bear more 
serious privations than even his friends were aware of 
Through all his days the poet's inheritance was his«-unre- 
quited performance and a continual struggle with adversity. 
Yet, through all his days he refused to court the prosperous. 



10 



The sensitiveness of his disposition, and a certain pride of 
independence, made him shrink from the extended hand of 
patronage. He felt that he also had his riches, and could 
impart them freely too — the riches which nature lavished 
upon him throughout her beauteous domain, from the purl- 
ing brook at his feet, up through the waving trees, and 
higher than the singing birds can soar, to the sparkling 
diamonds in the sky. The rich, indeed, partook of his 
riches ; but did not force upon the reluctant poet, as they 
should have done, a portion of their own, that his time 
might have been devoted to the mission which destiny had 
assigned him. His literary toil was to him a self- reward- 
ing toil, it brought him neither food nor clothing — yet, 
with no ill will towards any, with no envy, with no repining 
at fortune's meagre favors, he lived ; and to the last, whis- 
pering graceful verses, he died, and left us to regret that 
we did not prize him more. Such is the lesson of his life. 
When a boy, Mr. Timrod's talents attracted attention 
and secured him tnany friends. Their names, could they 
with propriety be mentioned on this occasion, would indi- 
cate the more than ordinary appreciation which marked 
the opening of his career as a poet. His early efforts not 
only gave promise of correctness of taste and beauty of 
language, but also of that personal feeling or heart expe- 
rience which characterizes all he has written. Like Byron, 
if he had been requested to compose verses on a given sub- 



11 



ject, he would have replied that he could not, unless he had 
personally known the occcasion, unless his own soul had 
felt and the instinctive spirit of song had been stirred 
within him. This truthfulness to his own heart, this rev- 
erence for nature as she was revealed to him, secured to 
his effusions an absence from affectation and from the imita- 
tion of the writings of others. This is the source of his 
excellence — the foundation of his success ; for this we would 
wreathe a garland in his honor, in that he has given us in 
the charming language of enduring songs — not idle senti- 
ments, insincere opinions, or mere brilliancy of fancy — but 
a revelation of one more human soul true to itself and to 
nature. We can trust to every portraiture of his pen as 
the genuine disclosure of what his heart experienced. Does 
he feel in early youth the first strange fluttering of incipient 
love ? Does the awakening to disappointment fill him with 
self-tormenting melancholy? Is he again and again baffled 
when he hoped mutual affection v/ould bestow peace and 
joy? and does he at last rest in the haven he has sought, 
to find too soon that there is no permanence of earthly bliss, 
that sorrow is linked with love, and that through suffering 
the heart is perfected? Yes, and he, too, when love is 
strongest, must lay down his love in the tomb ; when life 
is sweetest, must go down himself into the chill waters of 
the valley of the shadow of death ; but with a blessing he 
descends, for he beholds beyond the flood the serene vision 



12 



of everlasting permanence, and bows down in reverential 
prayer. All this and much more of his soul's experience 
he has given us in language perspicuous, simple, and 
melodious. 

The charms of external nature, in those varied appear- 
ances which have, from creation's dawn, excited the admi- 
ration of poets, seem to have made less early impressions 
on Mr. Timrod's mind : or, at least, such impressions seem 
not so readily to have evoked the power of song as the ex- 
periences of which we have spoken. Where another would 
describe, as minutely almost as a painter would put on can- 
vas, an imposing scene, a storm, a cataract, a gorgeous 
sunset, Mr. Timrod, by habitual introversion, looked for 
the blending of his humanity in some phase of thought or 
feeling with the material objects before him — sweet affec- 
tions with the flowers, gentle murmurings with rippling 
rivulets, sadness wath the drooping clouds, courageous 
aspiration with the towering mountain, moody passion with 
the howling tempest. Could he have been placed in com- 
pany with the author of Kokeby and the Lady of the Lake, 
amidst the lovely scenery depicted in those poems, whilst 
the bard of Abbotsford would have thrilled with the 
charms of the mute realities around him — our poet, yearn- 
ing for something beyond the objective, would sadly have 
sought communion with the spirit of nature, and listened 
to hear some language in the leafy glens, some voice among 



13 



the crags and rushing torrents ; not that he loved the 
beauty and the grandeur less, but because his contemplative 
disposition turned him continually to interrogate and to 
interpret all things in relation to the nature within him. 

If the views thus briefly expressed appear to you to be 
correct — you to whom Mr. Timrod's poems have long been 
familiar — you will, no doubt, also think with me, that a 
tinge of melancholy pervades his writings, appearing at 
times as though against his will, even in the lighter produc- 
tions of his muse. And this — was not this, too, being true 
to himself? And in saying this do we not confer the high- 
est eulogium upon his poems? giving our record to those 
who knew him not, that no false glitter or borrowed sensa- 
tion, or ambitious exhibition of imaginative power or poetic 
skill, engaged his pen, but that like Burns, he has left us the 
truth of himself as he really was, and felt, and loved, and 
thought, and joyed, and sorrowed, and hoped, and prayed. 

Connected with this view of Mr. Timrod's poetry, we 
may notice another characteristic which may either have 
sprung cut of this one, or have resulted from a thoughtful 
consideration of what a poet's mission should be. I mean 
the apparent selection of certain principles to guide him in 
authorship — self- experience, truthfulness, and purity of 
sentiment. 

Unrolled before him was the scroll of history, and his 
education had been such as leads through the literature of 



14 



ancient and modern times. Is it not, therefore, a mark of 
genius that from boyhood he should turn from these and 
the poetic materials they furnished, to study himself, draw- 
ing his inspiration from the well spring of his own con- 
sciousness? And what did he learn from this study of 
himself? He learned to speak to the universal heart whose 
symphonies, he knew, would respond in accord with his 
own, only if in his own, sincerity and purity prevailed ; 
for all that is false, discordant, and sinful is abnormal and 
a perversion of nature. He made this great law a law 
unto himself, both by preference of the principle which 
ought to direct whatever he might have to say to the world, 
and from the fact that he naturally sought what was con- 
genial in that which is innocent, pleasing, and intellectual. 
His fastidiousness in rhythm also contributed to this effect — 
I mean to delicacy and moral purity ; because, while for 
each separate poem, he fashioned as it were a polished cas- 
ket in which to present it to the public, it behooved him to 
regard the intrinsic value of what the casket should contain. 
In his estimation, beauty and truth constitute the elements 
of poetry. The truth is never sacrificed to mere beauty in 
his writings, and this seems due, in addition to the guiding 
principle he had chosen, to the equipouderance and happy 
blending in his mind of reason and fancy. If the latter of 
these faculties with restless pinions hovered over the birth 
of a new song, the other with restraining care calmed the 



15 



sportive sprite to quiescence and thoughtfulness. Upon the 
whole, though he had a most modest estimate of his en- 
dowments, he appears to have understood his mission in the 
exercise of the gifts he was conscious of, guarding always 
not only the justness, but the chasteness of his sentiments 
and language, as though his mission was from Heaven, and 
he was responsible that it should neither be perverted nor 
debased. 

We would not underake to say that Mr. Timrod might 
not have been successful in descriptive, didactic, heroic, or 
dramatic composition, had he lived longer ; but none can 
doubt his success as a lyric poet, in delightful versification 
and in the combination of his conceptions to represent 
faithfully the emotions and passions. What he believed 
he was fitted for, he attempted ; and in what he attempted, 
hath he not done well ? 

The place among poets which he strove to gain, he 

achieved ; and fills it with acknowledged distinction. He 

was often pointed out as he passed along as the minstrel of 

the Southern lyre. Some of his shorter lyrics are equal in 

their vein to the most exquisitely fanciful effusions of any 

poet we have read. . What sweet wit graces the verses 

called " Second Love," in which he pleads an excuse for 

having loved another. 

" It was indeed that early love, 

But foretaste of this second one — 
The soft light of the morning star 
Before the morning /S^tn." 



16 



" She mificht have been— She was no more, 
Than what a prescient hope could make— 
A dear presentiment of thee, 
I loved hut for thy sake.^^ 



What ingeniousness aud felicity of expression abound in 
the poem to " Katie," coming from England, with some of 
England's sunlight entangled forever in her curls. What 
pleasant fancies flit about the " Lily Confidante," and 
" Baby's Age," which, beginning with the buds of April, 
hath its successive weeks marked by a calendar of flowers. 
What archness in the lines to " Florabel." What tuneful 
sonnets — distinguished as sonnets ought to be — by perspi- 
cuity, completeness^ and artistic finish, without the show of 
art. What elaborateness in the " Vision of Poesy," the 
most studied effort of his pen. These qualities, with a 
shade at times of gentle melancholy, pervade many of his 
compositions; still, there are occasional vibrations of the 
str-onger passions when, as it were, the tragic muse, passing, 
touched the chords ; as in the address to the " Spirit of 
Storm," and in the thrilling pathos of a " Mother's Wail." 
But why should we enumerate the excellencies of writings 
in which, it may be said, there is nothing inferior, nothing 
undeserving praise, and a great deal that challenges admi- 
ration. 

Had the writings of Mr. Timrod been confined to the 
simple subjects of the volume he published, the prevailing 



17 



prettiuess of his fancies, the gracefulness and melody of his 
versification, his truthfulness and purity might have asso- 
ciated his name with the gentlest of minstrels, who with 
lute in hand, preferred to sing in shaded bowers, or strolling 
along some flowery stream ; and who, if occasionally snatched 
up among the whirling clouds of thought or passion, would 
always be most happy to return, as he says himself in one 
of his sonnets, to 

" CUng to the lowly earth and be content. 
So shall thy name be dear to many a heart, 
So shall the noblest truths by thee be taught— 
The flower and fruit of wholesome human thought, 
Bless the sweet labors of thy gentle art." 

There is, however, another and a higher view of Mr. 
Timrod as a poet ; for his productions at successive periods 
of his life, exhibit an improvement which was the result of 
continued study and training in his art. The terrible reali- 
ties of our late eventful history, roused him as nothing else 
on earth could have roused him ; and in the excitement of 
his soul he strung his lyre to more exalted themes, and 
poured forth in quick succession many spirited odes, which 
give him rank among the foremost lyric poets of America. 
Strange, that one who had been so long wedded, like 
Horace and Anacreon, to peaceful ditties of the unwarlike 
lute, should have been like Koruer, so carried away by 
inspiration when he heard the bugle blasts of conflict. We 



18 



need not, perhaps, recall to your recollection the beautiful 
introductory lines of the " Ethnogenesis," when a new 
nation seemed born into the world : 

" Hath not the morning dawned with added light 
And shall not evening call another star 
Out of the infinite regions of the night, 
Tonaark this day in heaven?" 

And who does not remember his battle hymn, ** Caro- 
lina!" the recitation of which, it is said, caused crowded 
audiences to rise to their feet? 

Who does not remember the calm and classic ode to the 
old city, where 

" Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, 
Looms o'er the solemn deep." 

Who does not remember that masterly production, 
*' Christmas," or a prayer for peace, which passed the bor- 
ders of conflict and was re-echoed through the North. We 
consider it one of the best odes our country has produced. 
I am almost unwilling to quote from it ; for, like a well 
proportioned temple, it will not bear a separation into parts. 
The time is Christmas in Charleston, and the poet asks : 
"How shall we grace the day?" The chimes of St. 
Michael's, that for generations had rung in the gleeful 
Christmas morn, had been removed. Sad changes had 
come over many hearts and many homes. Mirth would be 



19 



out of place in numerous families, for the loved ones at tlie 
festive hearth a year before, were keeping now their " mute 
Christmas beneath the snow" that mantled the stained 
battle-fields throughout the land. The ode proceeds : 



" How shall we grace the day? 
Ah ! let the thovight that on this holy morn 
The Prince of Peace— The Prince of Peace was born, 

Employ us, while we pray ! 

Pray for the peace which long 
Hath left the tortured land, and haply now 
Holds its white court on some far mountain's brow, 

There hardly safe from wi'ong. 

Let every sacred fane 
Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God, 
And, with the cloister and the tented sod. 

Join in one solemn strain ! 



With pomp of Roman form 
With the grave ritual brought from England's shore, 
And with the simple faith which asks no more 

Than that the heari be warm ! 

He, who till time shall cease. 
Will watch the earth, where once, not all in vain, 
He died to give us peace, may not disdain 

A prayer whose theme is— peace. 

Perhaps ere yet the Spring 
Hath died into the Summer, over all 
The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall 

Like some protecting wing. 



20 



Oh ! ponder what it means ! 
Oh ! turn the rapturous thought in every way ! 
Oh ! give tlie vision and the fancy play, 

And shape the coming scenes ! 

Peace in the quiet dales, 
Made rankly fertile by the blood of men ; 
Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen, 

Peace in the peopled vales ! 

Peace in the crowded town. 
Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain. 
Peace in the highway, and the flowery lane. 

Peace on the wind swept down ! 

Peace on the farthest seas. 
Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams. 
Peace whereso'er our starry garland gleams, 

And peace in^very breeze ! 

Peace on the whirring marts, 
Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams. 
Peace, God of peace ! peace, peace, in all our homes. 

And peace in all our hearts ! " 

Such is the well merited position Mr. Timrod has gained 
among lyric poets. When it was announced to him a few 
weeks ago that his life could not be prolonged, " must I so 
soon depart," he said, " who hoped to achieve so much ?" 
And though Death's icy hand was upon him, he still occu- 
pied himself with the "gentle art" which had been the 
solace of his life. His disease was one which generally 
leaves the intellect unclouded, refines the sensibilities, and 



21 



gives to the mind visions more distinct and clearer thoughts ; 
and it was, therefore, natural that he should look with fond 
regret upon the silent lyre — in the dust — at his feet — un- 
strung forever ! 

I have not deemed it suitable, on this occasion, to enter 
into a display of Mr. Timrod's merits by attempting a 
critical exposition of his poems ; this, if indeed there shall 
be need of it, must be left to essays and reviews when his 
collected works shall have been published ; nor has it 
seemed proper to prepare a sketch of his life, or of his char- 
acter ; this will be done by a fitter pen than mine. But, 
while yet the sod is fresh upon his grave — while yet the 
cheeks of those who loved him are wet with tears — some 
brief tribute like this seemed due to his memory from us 
among whom he died, and who cannot view with indiffer- 
ence the loss which the cause of letters has sustained in the 
early death of Henry Timrod. 

You, young gentlemen, whose generous sympathies are 
ever readily awakened in behalf of the struggling sons 
of genius of whom you read, and who, perhaps, have 
dropped a tear over the fate of a Chatterton or a Keats, 
will not fail to be instructed by this notice of one who 
possessed endowments equal to theirs. Wherever literary 
excellence is observed, I am sure you are attracted toward 
it ; and while here you are taught to admire the great 
masters who have bequeathed to you their noble works, 



22 



you should also learn, as I said before, to recognize, in your 
day and generation, all that is praiseworthy, and to 
encourage and promote it. It is seldom, if ever, given 
to any one man to combine all the moral excellencies that 
appertain to our nature ; and we may venture to say that 
7iever has it been given to one man to possess, in their 
highest degree, all the intellectual powers of which we are 
capable. Among literary men, in poets more than in any 
other, so large a combination of rare qualities is required 
to attain to excellence, that the names of those we call the 
great poets of the world may be counted upon our fingers. 
The highest type of a poet (at least to my mind) is King 
David — leaning upon his harp, with eyes upturned to the 
God of his inspiration! Then — through a long interval — 
we observe the solemn brow of intellectual compass, and 
the closed eyes of a Homer or a Milton ; and near them an 
^schylus and a Shakespeare ; then a Pindar, and further 
off a vast assemblage, among whom some aspire to no more 
than singing simple songs and ballads, yet to these we give 
honor too ; we who lift up our faces to the mighty oak, 
and bend in admiration over the tiny flower, who gaze 
upon the eagle soaring in the clouds, and watch with de- 
light the silver wings of the butterfly. If, in your life-time, 
no transcendent genius dawn upon the world within the 
range of your recognition, and claiming your personal 
homage, yet many minor poets of rare excellence may 



exist, keeping alive, like the vestals, the flame upon the 
altar— the flame that was kindled from heaven ! If yoil 
refuse to listen to them, you mny, with churlish hearts, ba 
turning an angel from your doors. When I tell you that Mr. 
Timrod received for his literary labors but a scant reward 
— that during all his life he was left to contend with dis- 
appointments and discouragements, let the lesson be worth 
more to you than a mere acknowledgment that the fortune 
of poets now is much like that of poets in the olden time ; 
that the same nature reproducing them, reproduces also, 
those who care not for them. Do 2jqu, in your generation, 
care for them, and encourage and aid them, and honor tliem. 
The subject opened before us is a very extensive one, and 
suggests many interesting and instructive remarks. Bat it 
appears most consonant with the object we have had in 
view on this occasion, to say no more than to add, in con- 
clusion, a thought which may enhance in your eyes the 
Poet's mission. It is that the world has need of such 
gifted sons of song, not only because by subtle skill and 
charming melody they soothe the passions, fill the mind 
with gentle emotions, inspire us with a love of home and of 
our country, and of the enjoyments of peace and the refine- 
ments of civilization, and that too by means calculated in 
themselves to afford us exquisite gratification ; not because 
they are the immortal heralds of the people's glory (while 
temples and statues and paintings and monuments are 
3 



24 



crumbling to dust), and send forth tlieir songs clothed with 
''winged words" to the farthest habitations of men, while 
the orator's voice at home is hushed and the musician's 
hand is still, and the pageantry of wealth and the luxurious 
grandeur of life disappear like the grass that withereth ; 
Dot because they contribute to social and domestic happi- 
ness, like music, from which, indeed, they seem inseparable, 
and teach to the inert and ignorant heart a knowledge of 
itself, and give to it an appropriate language for its 
thoughts and its affections — but for more than all this- — 
because they continually remind us of our immortality. 

Perishing mortals, as we are, we hope to ascend to those 
radiant realms where the Eternal God is worshipped by 
angelic hosts with songs of adoration — where the ecstacy of 
spiritual life is expressed in melodious strains — where har- 
mony, such as we can scarcely conceive of, prevails amidst 
the circling orbs of light, symphonious with the anthems 
that arise from " ten thousand times ten thousand and 
thousands of thousands" who worship around the throne. 
AVhenever men, " made but a little lower than the angels " 
and made to worship as angels worship, would unite in 
adoration their uatural voice of praise and thanksgiving 
is an outpouring of melodious and rhythmical words ; not 
from any studied conclusion that this will be acceptable, 
but from the fact that it is so, and that thus God has made 
us to worship Him. We can imagine that when over Eden 



25 



" the rosy-fingered hours unbarred the gates of light," the 
first utterance of man was a song — his first words were 
poetry— and the Almighty heard it, as it were the voice of 
an angel. The earth indeed hath need of poets, though 
now their minds be darkened, and their souls corrupt, and 
their imaginations dull, and their words feeble ; we need 
them to remind us of whence we came ; for we are traveling 
DOW in far off and gloomy and rugged places, where the 
music of a harp and the sweet words of a song bring to us 
something like a recollection of a home we have wandered 
from, and with the remembrance comes a pleasing hope of 
our return ; where clothed in purity we shall be j)ermitte(l 
to unite in songs of praise forever, and poetry will be the 
instinctive utterance of our souls. 



S T ^ N Z A. S 

OX AN 

ANCIENT SUPERSTITION, 

CONCERNING THE AVORLD'S DESTRUCTION. 



The nations of Anahuac believed that the sun, with all mankind, 
except a few individuals, had been three or four times destroyed; that 
another destruction, total and final, would occur; but only at the 
completion of one of their Cycles or Periods of fifty-two years, and 
only on the last night of the Period, and at midnight. The close of 
every Cycle was, therefore, a time of awful anxiety. Human victims 
were sacrificed on their lofty pyramidal temple. Every spark of fire 
in the whole country, according to ancient custom, was extinguished. 
The people of the Aztec capital, led by their priests, marched forth 
at sunset in solemn procession to a mountain about six miles distant, 
to await on its summit their approaching doom. If the midnight 
hour passed as usual, the event was instantly indicated by a bonfire 
on the mountain. Games and national festivities followed. (See 
Cullen's Clavigero, His. Mex., I, p. 2S8. McCulloh's Researches, p. 224. 

I have supposed one aged priest, lifted above the superstition of his 
people, dispelling their terrible despondency by anticipating the 
hour, and secretly lighting a bonfire on their Teocal or high pyramidal 
temple. 



28 



The night of death with gloomy wings outspread 

Swept o'er the trembling earth. Oh, who can tell 
The woes it brought, when numbered with the dead 

The living seemed, and nations hopeless fell! 

Scarce is the mnstery mine, with magic spell, 
One spirit to recall— one who had stood 

That woeful night, a lonely sentinel, 
And watched the signs of fate, in mournful mood ; 
But nerved with purpose bold and courage unsubdued. 

If to reveal the past such spirits deign, 

And foregone fears of death and earthly woes 
Be not to them as themes but idly vain. 

Him would I pray that night's sad scenes disclose; 
• For not the gloom of death that threatening rose 
Appalled his heart nor checked his purposed deed, 

Whence morn from midnight burst, and hope (that glows 
E'en on our graves) sprang, winged with joyous speed. 
And o'er each drooping soul her quickening radiance shed. 

He watched— while myriads sank in sore dismay— 

If all the beauteous stars that erst had shone 
In sweet assurance of returning day, 
Now harbingers of death, should one by one, 
Fade from the sky ere half their course was run- 
Though on his brow the sacrificial crown, 
Though cinctured chief of augurs, he alone 
Had dared, that night, the auguries disown. 
And break the fatal spell that bowed his nation down. 

Yet hardly knew he then the wondrous power 
Of his own deed. As one, with sudden thought 

Of inspiration, climbs some beacon tower 
While howls the midnight blast, and there is nought 



29 



Can save the stranding ship whose helm is caught 
By Death, in mocking guidance-when on high 

The beacons blaze !— ana all the fiends who wrought 
The fearful storm aghast and baffled fly - 
By his bold wisdom foiled who filled with light the sky. 



Serene he stood the sacred height upon, 
Where dripped the blood of human victims, slain 

To avert the fatal hour. No more the sun 
Should rise (their prophets sang), but night regain, 
In starless triumph, her primeval reign. 

Thrice had the earth, convulsed with partial doom, 
Her stricken sons and daughters prostrate seen ; 

Thrice had beheld returning day relume 

Her happy fields— and Life its wonted course resume. 



Another Cycle ends ; at midnight ends. 

To-night ! and all, foredoomed, but wait to die. 
Their agonizing fear together blends 

The strange portents of earth, and air, and sky. 

With mystic words of ancient prophecy. 
That told the terrors of this dolorous night ; 

When star by star should vanish from on high ; 
And prayer, and vow,.and sacrificial rite 
Should fail to save one beam from all the realms of light. 



When thro' the awful gloom the voice of man. 

Feebler and feebler heard, should pass away ; 
And living forms faint, helpless, groping, wan, 

To loathsome reptiles fall an easy prey ; 

Till Death, relentless still, should end his sway, 
His victory o'er— his sable banner furled— 

And leave to dismal stream, and surging sea, 
And crumbling rocks, down the dark valleys hurled. 
To sound their echoing dirge, and mourn a lifeless world. 



30 



So their undoubting souls in cliUUiood learned ; 

So priest and sage had taught their riper years. 
Whoe er, through stubborn unbelief, had scorned 

Such fear of death, now turned with bitter tears, 

And prayed for life as darkening night appears 
AVith dire forebodings of their certain doom. 

Ah me ! how could I wish that woe like theirs, 
Long buried in the oblivion of the tomb, 
E'en in a transient dream again on earth should come ! 



In artless rhyme I thought, forsooth, to tell 
Only of one who durst with boldness stand 

That fearful night, and all that him befell. 
For when tlieir wairior host and priestly band 
I called, to bare their breasts at my command, 

And give their griefs and fears to fill my song, 
They spurned my feeble spell and borrowed wand ; 

Yet words and sighs that to deep woe belong 

The naming of that night wrung from the flitting throng. 



And still they seem before me— still my heart 
Hears their sad wail as when they fled from view ! 

What though the boding sky, the silent mart. 
The death-like desolation spreading through 
The homes of men— what though such scenes renew 

Their dreariness, and move before mine eyes ! 
My soul but sees, while tears my cheeks bedew. 

That vast and moaning throng, whose piteous cries. 

Through all the cheerless day, went echoing to the skies. 



Again they seem to live. Each household throng, 
From field and hamlet near had come to die 

Where'er their priests should lead them : old and young, 
Friend, foe— yea, e'en the direst enemy 



31 



His feud forgot, and helped where, with a cry 
01 hate, he would but yesterday have slain, 

O'er all the same impending fate is nigh ; 
And beast and bird, as with prophetic ken. 
Fill with unearthly screams the abandoned haunts of men. 

What first, what last of grief I heard or saw, 

I know not; for like waves resounding came 
The mingling vision. Numbed as with an awe, 

Transforming to one image all our dream 

Of wreck or plague, or devastating flame— 
I seemed, where'er I turned my glance, to trace 

The same— yet thousands— and vet still the same 
Woe-smitten father with uplifted face, 
Pleading for a dear child that wept in his embrace. 



To my sad thoughts all grief this semblance wears ; 

For I have, powerless, watched my dying son, 
Whose look I could but answer with my tears, 

The trustful, loving look that dwells upon 

The memory forever; and in each moan 
From that vast throng I heard a father's prayer, 

That on his own thrice-willing heart alone 
Might come the pangs his child was doomed to bear, 
Such torturing pangs as filled the stoutest soul with fear. 



On us, Death, they cried ! on us be cast 
The hideous doom — on us thy horrors bring, 

With all thy throes of anguish, all thou hast; 
And from our suffering hearts with torture wring 
The life-blood drop by drop— and we will cling 

To thy cold hand, as to a Mend's, O Death, 
If thou our children spare, or o'er them wing 

Thy way, like twilight o'er fair flowers beneath. 

Whose petals gently fall, chilled by the evening's breath. 



32 



In vain they plead; their frenzied souls must hear 

Their children's plaintive moans, and powerless be 
Their life to save or soothe their sad despair. 

Yet, eie the westering sun had touched the sea, 

"While swelled the maddening wail, a long ari*ay 
Of white-robed priests swept forth, who called them near 

The holy Teocal, once more to pray ; 
Perchance e'en yet to sacrifice and prayer 
Some sign from heavea might come, some hope their hearts to cheer. 



As when to sudden march, at Moses' call, 

A nation sprang— no faltering step delayed 
Of age or sex ; but forthwith great and small 

Their homes forsook, and marched where'er he bade. 

So these respond— tho' hopeless and dismayed, 
And stood in crowds the Teocal around, 

And watched their priests, as up, with solemn tread, 
Now hid, now seen, from side to side they wound, 
Leading aloft to death their victims gaily crowned. 



Sombre an'd vast, and midway to the clouds, 

The pyramid upraised its towering head. 
Ah ! well the watchers know, when smoke enshrouds 

That far--een shrine, some quivering heart hath bled ! 

And well they know a shriek was heavenward sped, 
That could not reach their ears so far below ! 

There, woe-begone, on trembling knees they prayed, 
Till down returned the train with footsteps slow; 
Their garments crimson-dyed, that went up white as snow. 



And from their midst a voice that pierced the soul, 
Proclaimed, with startling tone, " No victim slain 

Can now the world's impending fate control ! 
Rise from the dust— your suppliance is in vain ; 



33 



Rise, and march forth— a nation's funeral train- 
To die where erst our fathers stood to die, 

Nor shrunlc to meet the doom the gods ordain. 
Let martial s6ngs, and bursts of minstrelsy, 
And heaven-heard psean shouts, our own brave death-dirge be I' 



Then might the eye behold (if eye there were 

Could turn to note another's dire distress) 
How sons their aged sires did onward bear, 

And mothers to their hearts their infants press, 

And fatliers stoop their children to caress, 
Or calm their fears— their own lips blanched with fear; 

And tiien were heard shrill cries of wretchedness, 
(If ear there were in all that throng could hear 
Aught elee but its own lieart's wild throbblngs of despair.) 



There saw I one disheveled, bathed in tears, 

Who, thougii through life she seldom word unblent 
With malice spake— now haggard, frail with years. 

Beneath an uncouth burden tottering went— 

Her idiot son with crippled body bent. 
His ear she ne'er had soothed with utterance mild ; 

But lo ! with streaming eyes, on love intent. 
She raised him in her arms and feebly toiled 
The onward host to reacli, with frantic sorrow wild. 



And stalwart men were uttering plaints of woe :— 
From some distraught arose the desperate call 

To venturous flight; from some the shriek, or low 
Sad voice of grief, or tone unnatural 
That cried 'be brave,' yet brought fresh fear to all. 

And one there was who fled to die alone, 
As loathing to behold the piteous fall 

Of wife and child beloved— but heard their moan 

And turned to their embrace— their fate shall be his own ! 



34 



And some who had themselves in caverns hid, 

Come forth— still shuddering at the horrid scene 
Of gloom therein and ravenous beasts which did 
With instant death assail them; but in vain 
From death they flee to join the pallid train 
"Who march to meet their doom. Thy dripping dart, 

Thy sheathless sword that hath its myriads slain, 
Must pierce, O Death, the faint, the dauntless heart- 
More strong, more subtly swift, where'er they are, thou art I 

"Who can escape ? "Who nerved with hope innate 

That clings to life, or winged with crazed despair. 
Can thwart the stern omnipotence of fate 

And flee from death ? Urged by the huntsman's snare 

To pitfalls yawning in deep valleys near, 
Bewildered sweeps the shaggy buffalo 

Down from the hills; and in the lightning's glare 
The condor dies— far o'er his quivered foe, 
Struck in his cloudy height whilst shunning fate below I 



II. 



Beyond the city gates a mountain reared. 
O'er crags and chasms, its lofty peak, whereon. 

Id ancient times, whene'er the fate they feared 
Passed harmless by, the first, bright signal shone, 
Proclaiming, far and near, the midnight gone; 

Then answering signals blazed, whose gladdening beams 
Eastward and westward, northward and southward thrown, 

Roused the vast empire from its doleful dreams 

To song, and festive dance, and all that mirth beseems. 

At morn, the sun first lit that mountain height; 
There latest gleamed when dusky eve had come, 
hither went forth the crowd ; some, in afl'right. 
With loud laihent for life implored, and some 



35 



In sorrow mute— but none durst wait their doom, 
Durst wait, alone, the midnight shrieks to hear 

Re-echoed baclv to eacli deserted home. 
All ! tho' no hand can help, or voice can cheer. 
The fainting spirit craves some kindly presence near. 

Yet had the desperate host tumultuous been, 

But pipes and blaring gongs in concert blent 
Still urged them on, as, marching o'er the plain 

And up the mount, their toiling steps they bent; 

To gain ere night should cloud the steep ascent, 
A terrace sward, the rugged rocks among; 

There, while the day a glimmering radiance lent, 
Midway they paused ; wfiat time the priestly throng 
To the departing sun chanted their farewell song. 

Whither, O God of lignt. 

Whither from shrines and temples, in thy flight 
Bearest Thou the brilliant day 
Swiftly on with flaming wheels for ever far away ? 

Hasting in vengelul wrath 
To waste thy glories where no hearts adore; 

Thro' lurid shades borne on thy path 
Beyond the earth, and sea, and sky, unworshipped evermore! 

Lo! here the clouds all night 
Keep watch to announce, with gorgeous hues, the birth 

Of joyous morn, whose golden light 
Awakes the waves to greet thy beams with dance and boisterous mirth. 

And here, sweet groves and flowers. 
Bathed in thy warmth, their fragrant ircense yield ; 
Here twittering birds in blooming bowers. 
And rippling rills, the wooing breeze, and every teeming field. 
Their daily homage bring 
To thy life-giving beams — while blithely sing 
Youths and maids with kindling eye 
In thrilling melodies of love beneath the radiant sky. 



36 



"When comes the lowering nigbt, 
They droop, and sleep, and dream of thy fair light ; 

If now that light no more be shed. 
All nature sinks in endless gloom— all hushed and cold and dead ! 



O leave us not to die ! 
And we will rear to thee a golden shrine 
Whose lustrous disk shall catch on high 
The morn's first beams that glistening o'er the eastern waters shine, 
And pour them down to earth 
From this proud height— that here thy coming seen 
Shall earliest be— and issuing forth 
Each day we'll greet tlie bright returning glories of thy reign. 
O still thy suppliants spare! 
O let one lingering ray our path illume I 
Send forth some sign to calm our fear, 
Some sign ttiat still shall harmless pass this dreaded ni^ht of doom! 



The gathering shades arise 

To whelm each feeble ray before it dies ; 
The purpled clouds seem filled with blood, 
And hoarsely rolls beneath thy car the ocean's crimson flood. 

O ! God of light, for thee 
Behold our robes witli sacred stains imbued ! 

See— from night's prison-caves set free, 
Dread monsters flit, ard dismal Fear, and all her horrid brood, 

On shadowy wings are borne ! 
Send forth— O send athwart the darkening Heaven 

One glittering ray in token given. 
That thou wilt still in triumph come, bringing the beauteous moi'n ! 



To save one cheering beam to light their way, 
Westward they stretch their suppliant hands In vain ; 

And listless watch the death-bed of the day, 
Till the dusk twilight fills the distant plain, 



37 



Then upward moves the melancholy train, 
With frantic grief or stern and pallid face. 

And many shudder and look back again 
Thro' streaming tears; and with unsteady pace 
Follow reluctant on, nor dare their steps retrace. 



Perchance their farewell glance sad memory leads 
To tombs near home where they had hoped to lie; 

While every thi'ob of nature in them pleads 
To shuu the doom that calls them forth to die 
Where no surviving hand will close the eye, 

Or to its sheltering grave the body bear. 
Oh ! who would perish where no power is nigh 

To shield the form we leave all helpless heie? ^ 

E'en welcome then might be the bitterest foe we fear! 



On all it loves the spirit may look down ; 

Part of ourselves the body is, to rise 
Immortal, and again to be our own. 

If what we cherish here, in death we prize, 

The soul, abandoning the happy skies. 
On mournful wing disconsolate may come, 

Lingering where its cold corpse unburied lies ; , 
As theirs must lie, to wither in the gloom. 
Till the slow-crumbling hills their mouldering bones entomb. 



Or would they still, still downward gaze as in 

Cavernous depths of gloom, and fondly seem 
To catch with straining eye the distant scene? 

The home of many loves, and all they deem 

Their own to love forever ; for no dream 
Ot love destroyed in death, when death's keen dart 

The suffering body slays, had come to them, 
Chilling their hopes, and whispering in each heart, 
" Stripped of its ties on earth, the soul must hence depart." 
"v 



38 



No, by the undimmed flame in my own breast, 
By every love-born blush, and sigh, and tear. 

By all the gentle host of angels blest, 
Who come from heaven to earth, and upward bear 
To heaven our love to those who wait us there, 

The powers of Death are powerless to quell 
The life-long love that turns to memories here. 

And with sweet hopes unyielding to the spell 

Which vvafts it into death, looks back to say farewell 



E'en scenes inanimate that wake to joy. 

Or soothe the soul, as with their sympathy, 
May leave an impress Time cannot destroy, 

May leave an influence which Eternity 

Will not efl'ace; and if our life to be 
Lose not the happy memories engraven 

Upon the soul while in vis— who shall say 
What loves it may not keep to mortals given. 
Or what of earth's pure joys it may not bear to heaven ? 



Perchance th<^ir tearful glance might now recall 
The scene where chiidhood vievved the starry dome. 

Bent arching o'ei*their blest abode ; where all 
The world was centred, and each lovely bloom 
Its birth -place had ; as if for that dear home 

The sun was made to shine and stars appear ; 
But sombre clouds or threatening storms would come, 

As comes the ungenial shade of gloomy care 

On boyh ,od's sunny brow, unmeant to linger there. 



The birth-place of our joys, the shady grove, 
The grottoes and melodious brooks tliat lure 

To blissful reverie or dreams of love — 
O ! 'tis not Nature bids the soul abjure 



39 



Its ties with scenes so fair, -wherein our pure 
And hallowed deeds we fitly chronicle 

From youth to hoary age, and ponder o'er, 
When from the past the thronging visions fill 
Our moon-lit home, and all save memory is still. 



Dear home of childhood ! some kind fairy dwells 
In your enchanted groves, and bids you share 

Orr love, and clothes you with her subtle spells ! 
Sentient you seem ; your flowers, methinks, may hear 
The maiden's sigh, when heaves her bosom near 

Your blushing buds, from sight of all afar, 
Nor tell the wanton breeze that wanders there, 

Nor the enamored bee, nor twinkling star. 

That bosom's secret love, or what its utterings are. 



There oft, with musing gaze, the sunset light 
In boyhood they had viewed on dale and rill, 

Till dancing up from shrubby height to height, 
It glanced its sportive beam from hill to hill, 
And from the mountain-top, in joyance still, 

Leapt to the clouds, and peeped from pillows piled 
Of beauteous hues, ere Evening drew her veil 

Around its couch ; then, like a rosy child. 

It sank to placid rest, and in its slumber smiled. 



In manhood too, when woke the merry morn, 

Springing from happy visions, they had led 
Their dark-eyed sons, with bows of polished horn 
And dart and lance, through forests widely spread. 
And smiled in praise when the swift arrow ^ped 
Or M-hen with bold approach they slew the prey. 

At eve their golden spear-points homeward shed 
The glittering gleams that closed the joyous day- 
Far off a mother's eye beheld them on their way. 

4 



40 



But now how changed ! a gloom eclipsed that sky 

Unlike the gloom of eve. The awful shade 
Our spirits feel when coming ills are nigh, 

Swept, like the wing of Death, their hearts dismayed ; 

And palsied Reason tremblingly obeyed 
The tyrant Fear— her crown and sceptre gone; 

And revelling Night in wild dominion swayed 
Her realm usurped, and reared her ebon thi-one 
In the dim arch of heaven— earth, sea, sky, all her own ! 



Appalling darkness brooded o'er the land, 

Darkness as of the tomb. No flickering trace 
Of light was left ! The shrinking child, whose hand 

A father clasped, saw not that father's face; 

Whose livid form chilled, as in Death's embrace, 
Assimilated seemed to what it soon 

Must be, when the faint throbbing pulse shall cease. 
Yea ! many sink, wrapt in The oblivious swoon 
That numbs the aching heart— kind nature's welcome boon. 



And many cast themselves upon the ground. 

Haggard, and reckless where they die, and yearn 
For instant death to come, tho' all around 

For life implored. Oh ! hast thy bosom borne, 

O Earth, a scene so woeful and forlorn. 
Since struggling thro' the gloom thy heights to gain. 

Thy death-doomed children crept, with toil o'erworn, 
And turned their prayerful looks to heaven in vain, 
While rose the engulphing Flood and poured the Deluge rain. 



Glaring upon them now, impatient Death 
Would fain anticipate the fated hour, 

And lurks, as doth some ravening beast, beneath 
The murky night, his victim to devour, 



41 



Crouching and watching with malignant lour.— 
But when the wildered soul, to madness driven, 

All hope forsook, and prayer had lost its power. 
Whose faith declared that help might yet be given ? 
Who looked with trusting heart and pleading eye to heaven ? 

III. 

He who, though risen at my behest he came, 
Had deigned but brief reluctant words to speak ; 

And from liis reticence my spell could claim 
No more ; yet for my eager longing's sake 
He seemed to cause the ancient dead to awake 

And move before me; and, mdthought, unveiled 
Again on hill and plain and peopled lake 

The horrors of that night their souls assailed— 

While through the deepening gloom himself I still beheld. 

Alone he seeks the dark deserted shrine, 
Where, charred and stained, the fallen faggots lay. 

The helpless host he left, with bold design 
As wafted back on Mercy's wings; while they. 
His quick return unseen, toiled on their way 

Up the steep mount, to die when midnight came; 
Or with wild shouts of joy their victim slay, 

And news of life (if life be theirs !) proclaim 

With waving toich and far seen cloud-ascending flame. 

Majestic grace adorned his aged brow 
And noble form erect. To heaven he raised 

His thoughtful face, still lit with all the glow 
Of ardent youth, but passionless ; and gazed 
In reverent mood. The sky awhile emblazed 

With stars, beamed with no calmer light than shone 
From his clear eye. Tho' monarchs sank amazed 

And warriors quailed, he came to look upon 

Their scroll of Fate and its omnipotence disown. 



42 



The priestly garb he wore ; but seldom stood 

With priestly crowd adoring sun or moon, 
Or gods whose altars reeked with human blood. 

His gentle heart the love of all had won ; 

That heart's fierce conflict to them yet unknown, 
With groans and tears he waged, as year by year 

The bloody sacrifice he strove to shun, 
Or strayed on solitary mountains, where 
With nature he communed, and kneeled in humble prayer. 



God is where'er the human voice invokes 

His mercy and his aid. On sea or land. 
In crowd or desert drear, who upward looks 

Seems in the midst of heaven's fair dome to stand, 

Which spreads in silence round on every hand. 
In emblem of an all-embracing love, 

That guai'ds each soul, yet doth o'er all expand, 
Pouring its gentle infiuence from above. 
Where'er, by day or night, thro' the wide world we rove. 



Such love he surely knew who yearning came 

To bless the sorrowing and the helpless save. 
When visioned to my view, I sought his name, 

His lips, responsive else, no utterance gave. 

What paltry fame could such a spirit crave? 
Let crested helm and kingly brows that wear 

The wreaths of Fame, her empty glories have ! 
To him was given— 't was all he wished— to hear 
The mourner's happy song— the sufferer's grateful prayer. 



On the high Teocal, in reverie lost. 
Still as a statue, save the glancing eye 

That traced each movement of the starry host, 
He saw not, rising slowly, gloomily, 



43 



Like spectre giants far off in the sky, 
The mustering clouds -but gazed as tho' he meant 

The world's portentous horoscope to try ; 
Alas ! how hard to rest in faith content, 
E'en if from God hiniself a heavenly guide be sent ! 

But faith prevai'ed. " No will," he said, " or thought, 

Or power, I find within your orbs of light. 
Tho' sages teach that your fair rays are fraught 

With evil destinies, that all your bright 

And marvellous host but blazon o'er the night 
The doom of realms, ordaining kings to die, 

And beautifully beaming on the blight 
Yourselves have wrought, and on crushed hearts that lie 
Pierced with your subtle shafts of cureless agony. 

" Falsely thej'^ teach ! The glory that is strown 

O'er your mysterious paths He will uphold 
Whose ministers ye are, around whose throne 

Ye tremulously move in awe controlled. 

And we shall live! and you, even as of old, 
All impotent to harm, shall still appear; 

No beam annulled, no dire confusion rolled 
Amid your ranks, nor thro' the darkened air 
Shall nature's death-song sweep from falling sphere to sphere, 

" Once arbiters of fate, your host did seem ; 

Prophetic sovereigns of all good or ill. 
New-wakened to the thought of God supreme, 

I come, as tho' His mandate to fulfil, 

I come to break your fancied power— to still 
The tumult of despair. No more to me 

Shall purposeless destruction mark the will 
Of nature's God. E'en now, as mine shall be. 
The souls of all, from doubt and maddening terror free." 



44 



But while he spake, the lightning flashing forth 
Darted its signals thro' the distant air, 

Calling the pitiless storm-God to the earth- 
Slowly he tnrns, the altar's pile to rear 
Of resinous wood heaped up with many a layer, 

"Where sleeps the strength of roaring flames. But fast 
The storm assails him, lifts his hoary hair, 

And round him whirls, as round some stately mast. 

Alone and tempest-tossed, that braves the howling blast. 



Hark ! on the wild wind comes there not a shriek ! 

Or do the demons whom he dares betray 
Even at their wonted shrine, draw near to wreak 

Their vengeance ere his proud words pass away? 

Again that cry! the shrieks of agony, 
Pierce shrilly from the mount thro' wind and rain 

And deafening storm, and in his sympathy 
Fain would he seek the frantic host again, 
Whose horror would but hear his soothing words in vain ! 



But thundering round him the fierce storm had come 
Through the rent sky. And gleaming o'er his head 

The lightning flashed— then all again was gloom. 
Startled, as tho' a funeral torch had shed 
Its glare into a tomb where lay the dead 

He mighthave saved by putting forth his hand- 
He cried, 't is done .'—and soon the blaze is spread 

From layer to layer ; as speeds a lightning brand 

That flres some mountain -top, far seen through all the land. 



On many a height throughout the darkened realm, 
Sad watchers far and near their vigils keep, 

Nor turn their earnest gaze from whence the flame, 
By ancient rite flrst lit, should upward l;eap 



45 



Above the Aztec Mount, and bid each steep 
Its blaze respondent wake. No hand had done 

Such deed before, had dared their terrors sweep 
At once away— nor knew they if upon 
The mount or Teocal the distant signal shone. 

The flame burst forth. Far from the Teocal, 
With quickened step, the nero-priest had gone. 

None knew his name who ventured for them all 
To break, ere yet the destined hours had flown, 
Their spell of terror. Brighter, higher shone 

The daring signal, curled its lambent flame, 
And shot its eager light; while swift upon 

Its happy eri-and each diverging beam 

Sped cheerily to bear glad news where'er it came ! 

Mingled with thankful prayers, shout after shout 

Of sudden joy from far-off cities rose. 
And now the birds in strange alarm fly out 

From hidden nests, now flap their wings in close 

And closer circles round the flame— as glows 
From tower to tower the ascending beacon-light 

Thro' all the excited land, and eastward throws 
Its gladdening rays, and westward takes its flight. 
Blaze answering to blaze from hill and mountain height. 



Skimming the lake it passed, and o'er the stream, 

A band of light, till on the ocean's breast 
Scattering its diamonds, fairer than the gleam 

Of Evening-Star, it glittered in its rest, 

Its happy mission done. 

What lips unblest 
As mine, a nation's joy and loud acclaim 

For life can tell ? When all in garlands drest. 
With rapturous songs greeted the Day's bright beam. 
That dawning o'er the east in cloudless brilliance came. 



46 



My own heart leaped with joy to hear their songs 
And gladsome shouts, while from afar and near, 

From echoing hill and dale, the merry throngs 
With banners came, and called with boisterous cheer 
Throng unto throng— and music filled the air, 

And thousands climbed the rugged heights upon 
To hold their children up, tne soonest there 

With clapping hands to welcome back the sun, 

As on their fair young brows his golden radiance shone. 

Oft was the Ptory told in after days, 

How some mysterious being from on high, 
Robed like a priest, had lit the signal blaze 

With lightning-flashes from the stormy sky. 

And oft was told how one, whose majesty 
Might well have graced a being of heavenly birth. 

Had taught that in the stars their doom to die 
No more should come— but love to man shine forth 
In every ray from heaven that reached the beauteous earth. 



ELDRED 



(1870.) 



The autumn sunset gilds the ancient oaks 
As with a parting homage ; they had braved, 
So many years, the wracliing of the storms. 
And tlirough their mossy festoons glancing down, 
As with an homage, too, the sunset gleam 
Touches with softened rays the aged brow 
And hoary locks of one who stands beneath 
The shadow of the oaks ; for he had borne. 
Through many years, the pitiless storms of fate. 



Behind him, with new, cheeiing flowers adorned, 
An humble cottage has replaced his old 
Ancestral mansion, razed by ruthless war. 
Before him spreads the water of the Bay- 
Child of the ocean— with its dancing waves 
And glistening sheen, and buoyant sUr of life. 
Yet all unseen by him the sunset light; 
Unseen the sportive waves and sheltering oaks ; 
Unseen all sights save one that Alls his thoughts. 
Shading his feeble eyes with palsied hand, 
He watches, still afar, the dipping sail 
Of skiff or pinnace flitting o'er the brine, 
Like sea-gull with expanded wings. Now near 
And nearer it has come, till like a bird 
It folds its wings and rests upon the strand. 



48 



The boatman rose, and deftlj'- with his crutch 
Struck in the sand— as some bold cavalier, 
These shores exploring, might liave used his lance- 
Leapt to the beach, as to a spot well known, 
And moored his little craft. Sore maimed for life 
When once he led the assault, and forward bore 
The battle-flag, while round him hundreds fell- 
Sore maimed for life, a martial comeliness 
Still clothed his noble form, and beautj' still 
Sat in his bronzed cheek. With wavy curls 
Uncovered to the breeze, he stood awhile, 
Like one all unobserved, and looked to heaven, 
As though some sad emotion stirred his heart. 
And in the shadow of the sheltering oaks, 
His father, in that moment, raised his hand, 
And, with a prayer unspoken, blessed his son. 
Him Eldred saw not; yet his soul must needs 
Have felt a quickening grace from heaven descend 
To such a prayer. Then stepped the old man forth 
And called his son. And Eldred quickly came 
And sat beside his father on the shore. 
The balmy earth was lulled in sweet repose 
Of eventide ; and, save the rippling waves. 
All else was still. In silence sire and son 
Together sat ; and from the homestead near, 
A solitary bird, with noiseless wing 
Moved slowiy through the air, and westward flew. 
And long they gazed upon its lessening form, 
Till far off, toward the setting of the sun, 
It vanished from their view. Then Eldred spake : 



" Father, I come to say farcAvell. What need 
Oi such as I am hath our fallen State ? 
The terms a conquering soldier freely gave 
Are trampled in the dust by party power. 
And peace denied us ; vengeance following still 
From year to year, and still unsatisfied. 



49 



Disfranchised, spoiled, stript of our heritance 
In freedom's blessings— sliall we stay and see 
Our ignorant slaves made masters in our stead? 
How can we bear the shame ! 'Tis well— 'tis well 
Our ancient homes ai'e leveled with the dust, 
And nought is left us but our unploughed fields 
And our impoverishment— lest in our halls 
Some lingering echo of the past, some mute, 
Revered memorial of our proud estate 
Might rouse us to throw off the hateful chains 
With which they subtly bind us in the name 
Of equal rights and liberty and law." 



His father bowed his head, as one whose heart 
New grief assails; then sadly turned and said : 
Eldred, my son, say whither wouldst thou seek 
A land where brood no wrongs— where lust of rule 
And greed of gain have not triumphant risen ? 
I fear on all these States a change descends; 
That public virtue a by -word will be, 
And Freedom lose her charm— which Heaven forbid 1 
O'erpowered, impoverished, and almost abased, 
Though we seem impotent to rise again. 
Yet must we aim to rise. Our hour will come, 
If we be true and steadfast in ourselves. 
Here let the battle of thy life be fought. 
To efface our wrongs, to guide to peaceful arts 
And purer life < ur liberated serfs ; 
To All the wasted land with strenuous men ; 
To wake the dreamers, dreaming o'er the past, 
To prayer and hope and enterprise and toil— 
Our life-work in God's service and the State's. 
What freer land invites thy footsteps hence? 
What friend, with heart more loving than my own, 
Beckons thee on to fairer skies than these? 
Here thy paternal acres still are thine, 
And plenteous crops await but thy command, 



50 



"With all the Avealth they bring and power for good. 
Chafe not at Heaven's decrees. Our all we staked, 
And all, save our integrity, is lost— 
And these bare fields ! But thou art with me still- 
In thee 1 live again. The drooping bird 
That westward from our homestead went, presaged 
My too— too grievous loss, if hence thou go, 
Thy loss to me forever" 

Eldred rose 
With softened heart ; for fondly did he love 
His aged father, and had oft designed 
To bear him with him from the saddening scene 
Of their old home ;— he rose with humid eye 
And looked upon the sparkling waves, whose voice 
Said " stay; " and other waves and othei's still 
Came chasing toward him out from all the Bay, 
And all their voices in one chorus joined 
To bid him stay; and memories, gathering fast 
From by-gone years, came whisperiiigto him " stay." 



Then came his father gently to his side. 
As leaning on his crutch, in thoughtful mood. 
He listened to the voices of the waves; 
•* Eldred, dost thou remember how these fields 
Were won, and with their teeming wealth became 
Our home ? An Eldred once, (thou bearest his name,) 
Shipwrecked and destitute, survived alone 
Of all his crew; and on this unknown coast, 
Two centuries ago, was captive made 
By dusky warriors, and was doomed to die. 
But death he courted, desperate grown by toils 
And wasting suff"eriDg ;— cast by the treacherous sea 
To perish on the inhospitable shore. 
Yet in his dauntless, death-defying mien 
His safety rested ; for the savage chief 



51 



In admiration claimed him for his own 

And called him son. And after many moons 

He led him eastward, where the English flag 

Was bravely flying o'er a hardy band 

Of venturous men. With kindly eye, the chief 

Looked upon Eldred's face, and pointed toward 

The laboring colonists; then mutely turned 

And left him there alone. 



When Spanish wiles 
Urged the rude warriors on to ruinous war, 
'Twas Eldred's voice that from the victor's stroke 
Saved, on this spot, the fallen chieftain's life. 
Here his last wigwam rose ; and Eldred oft. 
While peace prevailed, would come with pleasing gifts 
To cheer his aged friend— his dying friend. 
Yonder still honored, lies his humble grave. 



When stronger tribes united to destroy 
Our few but valiant countrymen, again 
This blood-stained land its hard-fought battles bore; 
And for his deeds, to Eldred were assigned 
These fields, a forest then. Their fertile soil 
He turned to the genial sun, and beauteous made 
For those he loved, this home— now mine and thine. 



And hath not since the cruel Spaniard come 
To seize these coveted lands ; and Indian liordes 
Of hated Yemassee, in frightful raids, 
Dispersed our kin, and sacked and burned and slain 
Through all we held our own, and stronger grew, 
And turned these fertile acres to the sun. 
And our own motherland, through eight sad years, 
Of unrelenting war, her hired hosts 



52 



Sent hither to reclaim or crush us down. 
Yet still we held our own, and stronger grew, 
And turned these fertile acres to the sun. 
And wealth returned with hospitable hand ; 
And virtue, with bold self-reliance twinned, 
Garnered her treasures to enrich our hearts. 
Then thought we, in our pride, no earthly power 
Could cope with Southern valor. Bloody war 
In vindication of our rights we waged, 
Four years of bloody war— brothers in strife 
With brothers. Do they, cruder than all 
Our former foes, disfranchise and still mark 
With name of rebel our most upright men 
And wisest; and for friendship choosing force 
Outcast us— lest they lose their short-lived power? 
Yet we shall hold our own, and stronger grow, 
And turn these fertile acres to the sun. 
And deem no man our master. Wrong but woi'ks 
To undermine itself— digs its own pit, 
And God shall therein cast it. Stay, my son ; 
Thy hand should lay these grey hairs in the grave, 
And here beside my fathers, would I rest." 



And Eldred strove to master in his breast 
The impulsive promptings to denounce the wrongs 
He yet must bear ; and then with gentle hand. 
As gentle as a girl's, he smoothed the locks. 
The snowy locks the ruffling breeze had touched ; 
And said, " For thy sake, father, will I stay ; 
And help foul wrong descend into her pit." 



And scarce their converse ended ere the beams 
Of Venus glimmered on the waves and called 
The loving Eldred to his timid spouse 
And little ones and home beyond the Bay. 



53 



And rising cloudless in the east, the moon 
Poured down her silvery light ; and onward sped 
The pinnace. Eldred felt the merry waves 
Lifting him up for joy ; and to his ear 
An utterance came, as they, with rippling notes, 
"Would sing to one they loved. His father watched, 
Beneath the shadow of the oaks, far off 
The moon-lit sail, that like a sea gull seemed. 
With wings expanded, hastening to her nest. 



OCT 1 1908 



